Archive of Our Own

“This way, RT506.”

He stands, not waiting for further instruction before following the nurses out the door. He doesn’t recognise them, but that doesn’t mean much in here. They could be new, or the ministry has decided he doesn’t need to keep those memories.

They are surplus to requirements. If he had to hold onto all of them, there would be no room for everything he has to learn by the time they are allowed back on stage.

His room is a long way from where they are going, deeper into the belly of the hospital. It takes a lot of walking to get anywhere down here, and there’s no point in trying to remember the way since they don’t let them wander around alone. 

It wouldn’t be safe. There are so many twists and turns, some of which seem to lead absolutely nowhere, that a person could get lost down here for a very long time.

“In here,” one of the nurses says, stepping aside to let him enter a narrow room with a large window on the inner wall.

As he crosses the threshold, he knows instinctively that he has been here before, and his gut twists uncomfortably. 

There are not many reasons for him to leave his room. 

Occasionally, the band is allowed to eat together or otherwise fraternise, and there are rehearsals in the lead-up to a performance, but, other than that, he is only brought out to be treated or to treat.

FI927’s treatment has already begun. 

RT506 watches from his side of the window.

His b̶̠̈́a̸̗͠n̷̩̊d̸̞̄m̵͙͗a̸͓͘t̷̛̺e̷̝̿ – the prisoner – takes another boot to the shoulder, knocking him down from where he had risen to his knees. The men in the room are not dressed like nurses. Their faces are covered with black hoods so that they cannot be remembered, even if the ministry allowed it. 

It’s as impersonal as their treatment gets, and he pities FI927 for a moment before reminding himself to be grateful that his treatment is never so harsh.

It doesn’t need to be. Not for him, and not for FI927 either. But there’s a reason they all have different care plans, carefully decided by Head Nurse Sylvia. No one responds to treatment in the same way, and some are more resistant than others.

Though RT506 has never had the opportunity to witness MW653’s treatment, he has been told that the two of them have been much more difficult to manage and that they are far more prone to lapses.

RT506 is relieved that everything is calmer over on his side of the hospital. It’s heartening to know that he is one of the easy ones.

The alternative is being difficult, and difficult is writhing on the floor as he splutters obscenities, getting another kick to the jaw for his troubles. RT506 tenses, feeling his hands curl into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. 

The nurse flanking him leans over to a small microphone on their side of the wall and says, “Avoid the face, please. The Grand Immortal Dictator does not wish to see damaged goods on his stage.”

RT506 tries not to take any of it in. After all, he is not here to listen, only to observe until they allow him to act.

Still, he can’t help but feel a slight thrill run down his spine as he hears of their leader and the potential for another performance so soon. Another chance to prove that their time in the ministry has been well-spent and they are ready to leave it all behind. They are ready to perform for Him.

“Fuck you!” He hears their rhythm guitarist spit from behind the glass, lunging at one of the hooded men. 

He almost succeeds in knocking him down when his head jolts back, and his hands fly to the collar around his neck. 

“Fuck!” he shouts again. “I can’t–”

They shock him again, and he falls to the floor. 

The man he pushed lays a mean kick to his ribs, and the guitarist attempts to sit up before being shocked again.

He tries again and again, until RT506’s palms are bleeding from the force of his nails against them. RT506 grits his teeth, trying to keep his face still and calm. The nurse to his left stares at him unabashedly, waiting for a slip-up.

It would only take the slightest twitch of the eyebrow– a tear to run down his cheek, or less– and RT506 will be escorted back to his room to watch the rest of this punishment from the screen they have installed in there. He wouldn’t be able to do anything else but watch.

So he stays still. He is calm, though his insides shake with the need to break down the wall between them and skip ahead to the only part of this that doesn’t make his stomach coil.

As necessary as their treatments are, they are not always the easiest thing to watch. 

Maybe that’s why none of his bandmates gets to be present for each other’s treatments, only RT506, which he knows should be taken as an honour. 

He’s grateful, really, but it’s hard not to feel a little jealous of the others who only have to think about their own betterment and not everyone else's.

Finally, FI927 stops fighting back. 

He lies curled on his side, hands around his head as the men spend a minute more beating him, waiting for a response. When they do not get one, they leave out of a door on the far side of the room, and RT506 lets out a breath so small that it doesn’t make a dent in the ensuing silence.

Still, they make him wait. He’s not sure what that’s supposed to teach him, but that’s fine. If it’s something he needs to understand, they will tell him.

Finally, the nurse who spoke into the microphone earlier taps his shoulder, and the tension drains out of him. She hands him a bag emblazoned with the ministry’s logo.

“You may enter.”

He tries not to rush into the room, but he can’t help quickening his pace as he approaches his guitarist, who lies still on the ground.

It’s hard to tell whether he’s conscious or not until RT506 kneels down at his side and lays a hand on his arm.

Then, FI927 flinches, scurrying back as fast as his injured body will carry him. His eyes widen, and he tenses, as though expecting a shock. When none follows, his face rearranges itself into one of suspicion.

Unlike their Most Exalted Vocalist, FI927 always recognises RT506, but that doesn’t stop him from snarling when he tries to get close, clutching onto his collar with one hand while clawing at the concrete with the other.

“I saw you watching, you son-of-a-bitch. I saw you! Don’t come any closer!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” RT506 answers honestly, turning away from his accusing gaze to lay out the medical supplies.

“You were standing with them,” the guitarist spits, wincing as he speaks. Despite the dazed expression, his rage burns through.

“I always am,” RT506 replies simply, trying to keep his voice level.

“Not always,” FI927 replies with a heavy scoff as he shakes his head. 

RT506 takes a breath, remembering what Nurse Sylvia has taught him about remaining impenetrable to this kind of talk, especially right after treatments when the wounds are still raw. 

Stay calm and redirect.

So he does, shuffling closer to the guitarist until his back is against the wall, unable to move any further away. RT506 sits across from him. 

“Where does it hurt?” he asks, trying to remain professional.

The guitarist presses his back further into the wall, glancing periodically at the clear window where the nurses stand viewing them. 

Though his whole body trembles with pain, he does not stop glaring at RT506, promising, with just a look, that he will lash out if he gets any closer. He won’t be able to do much, but RT506 doesn’t want to see it come to that if he can help it.

“You’re with them,” FI927 repeats. “I could hear you.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies with a note of genuine confusion.

“I heard you!” FI927 lashes out, recoiling at the pain in his own jaw.

RT506 taps the ground, trying to find his rhythm again as a sick feeling wraps around him. 

It’s not guilt, because guilt is for when he’s been bad and needs to be corrected. He hasn’t done anything wrong. That was all FI927, who should have known better than to do whatever he did.

“I can give you something for the pain first,” he offers.

“Like hell you will!” FI927 fires back. 

They’re in a stalemate. Several minutes go by where he can do nothing but wait. All the while, FI927 grows weaker, collapsing in on himself like a dying star. RT506 forces down the seeds of panic that threaten to burst up out of him.

The nurses brought him here for a reason. For all his anger, FI927, and the others for that matter, seem to respond better when it’s him instead of a doctor they don’t recognise.

If he can’t fulfill this one job, they won’t ask for his help again.

As much as it pains him to see his bandmates this way, the alternative of hardly seeing them at all feels so much worse.

“Please. Please let me help,” RT506 begs after long enough has passed that his guitarist has slumped against the wall, breaths coming out in raspy snatches as he clutches his side. 

It could just be very bad bruising, or it could be internal bleeding. His jaw could’ve been fractured or dislocated. RT506 can’t know because he won’t let him look, and then he’ll die down here, and it’ll be all his fault, and DRAAG will never forgive him, and—

“Just do it,” FI927 says, so quietly that RT506 almost misses it. He notices his own cheeks are wet, his chest is tight with the effort of drawing breath. 

FI927 continues, “I can’t–” his voice catches. “Fuck, I don’t wanna do this.”

FI927 always gives in. It never takes very long. He’s just as desperate to hold on to this bit of contact as RT506 is.

“I know,” RT506 replies, finally closing the distance between them and bringing the pre-loaded syringe with him. “It’s okay. We’re gonna help you.”

“No,” FI927 groans, shutting his eyes. 

He doesn’t know what he wants, but that’s okay. The ministry knows what he needs.

RT506 forces down the tears threatening to spring to his eyes. It’s so hard to see his guitarist like this, crying out for help but so unable to accept it that he denies ever needing it. 

He was told they were all that way when DRAAG first rescued them, frightened of the world, scared of themselves – hurting themselves because they didn’t know any better.

It was all a long time ago. He got better. His guitarist will get better, too.

RT506 places a hand on his knee, carefully inserting the needle into his thigh and pushing down until the liquid is gone.

After another minute or two, FI927 stops trembling against the wall. The harsh lines of his face begin to fade and his eyes open, glassy and wide, searching the room.

His gaze softens when it lands back on RT506.

“It hurts,” he murmurs, grabbing hold of his shirt where the blood is seeping through from his side.

“I know,” RT506 replies. “Let me see.”

He lets RT506 inspect the bruising, which is mainly concentrated on his ribs. They don’t feel broken, but judging by the pain the guitarist is still experiencing, they’re probably fractured. There’s nothing to do but let them heal.

He takes a sterile wipe to FI927’s face, cleaning the marks left by the man who laid a boot into his jaw. His face feels so fragile, held up in RT506’s hand as the other presses down on the scratches.

FI927 leans into the touch, clearly enjoying this more than he’s supposed to. RT506 glances nervously at the window, but the nurses make no move to stop them. The guitarist’s cheek is surprisingly warm against his hand.

“Feels better,” FI927 murmurs as he finishes cleaning out the wound. He makes a face when RT506 takes his hand away, head dropping a little to the left. “Hey!”

RT506 smiles despite himself– despite the fist tightening around his heart.

“Let me wrap your ribs, and then we’re done,” he says.

FI927 allows himself to be pulled away from the wall, giving RT506 access to his back so that he can wrap cooling packs around the worst of his injuries 

“We’re never done,” the guitarist says, almost as an afterthought.

RT506 freezes with one hand steadying his waist.

Then, imperceptibly, he grazes a slip of exposed skin with his thumb. It’s as close to a comforting gesture as he can manage.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the tape across FI927’s body. “Things are going to get better for you.” When the guitarist does not reply, he sighs, adding, “I really believe that.” 

FI927 does not say anything, but his eyes widen i̴̜̽n̴͔͌ ̶͕̆f̷̳́é̸̝a̵͙͛r̸̲̕, hopefully. He tugs at the collar around his neck. The scent of burnt flesh lingers unpleasantly.

RT506 looks up at the nurses. “Can we take it off? I can’t see anything with it on.”

The nurse leans down to speak into the microphone.

“The collar is necessary for FI927’s treatment. It stays on.”

The guitarist looks at him with misery pooling in his eyes.

“But–” RT506 is cut off by the slightest shift in the nurse’s expression, signalling that he has overstepped his bounds. He turns back to FI927. “I’m sorry. You need to keep it on.”

“I don’t,” he replies, clutching RT506’s hands and moving them closer to his neck. “I don’t, I’m not gonna do anything.” He’s almost laughing now, a deranged smile spreading across his face through the tears. “Please, I can’t breathe right.”

RT506 manages to dislodge his hands, and they land on FI927’s back. The guitarist leans into him despite his protestations, tucking himself under RT506’s chin as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” Rt506 reiterates, briefly contemplating pushing FI927 away before deciding that the infraction has already been committed and stopping it now won’t change much for either of them. “It’s the best thing for you.”

“You don’t mean that,” FI927 sniffles, wiping a hand over his mouth. “You’re just saying it because you hate me.”

RT506 is taken aback.

“What? No, I don’t.”

“I heard you,” FI927 says, his voice murky under the medically-induced haze RT506 put him in. “All those times. You never wanted me in the band. You want someone else, so it doesn’t matter what they do to me.”

“That’s not true.”

He has never said anything like that, unless they made him forget. But he’s never felt it either. If anything, his sympathy for the guitarist is undesirable. 

It makes him think about d̵̨͇̈́͆ĭ̶͎͇s̵͛͗͜ö̴̧̲́b̷̧̤͌͊e̶͓̓̏d̶̠̐i̵̖͐e̵͓̒͝ň̷̩͙͊t̵̪̀̀ ̸̞͐ bad things, like trying to take off the collar without permission. He won’t– he understands that he is not smart enough to understand why DRAAG must do what it does– but wanting to is bad enough.

FI927 grows heavier in his arms. When RT506 looks down, his eyes are barely staying open. They’ve gone somewhere far beyond this room.

“Has medical attention been provided?” the nurse asks over the intercom.

The answer is obviously yes– there isn’t anything else he can do if they won’t let him remove the collar– but, for reasons RT506 cannot decipher, he is reluctant to say so.

Instead of lying, he remains silent, tapping the guitarist’s arm irrhythmically, trying to keep them both here for as long as possible. The painkillers won’t last forever. They’ll return to their rooms, and FI927 will have to suffer through the consequences of his actions all alone. 

The intercom crackles again. 

“Leave the patient, RT506, or risk a correction.”

He nods, leaning his head down to mutter to FI927, even though it won’t stop them from listening, “Don’t worry. We have a show for Him soon. Another chance to prove we’re ready. Doesn’t that sound good?”

FI927 doesn’t respond; he merely shuts his eyes and breathes shallowly, pushing his head deeper into RT506.

“I’ll see you again soon,” RT506 adds before helping him sit back against the wall and heading for the door. 

He does not risk glancing back as they come to retrieve the guitarist, but he hears the muffled groan of pain when they drag him to his feet. 

Afterwards, the nurses bring RT506 to the canteen– a grey, cavernous room that sits empty, save for the one tray already waiting for him on a circular table.

Absently, he wonders where GW386 is– if he’s eaten already or if he’s somewhere else, going hungry.

RT506 sits down, trying to bite his tongue. The question slips out anyway.

“FI927, he–” the nurse’s eyes narrow dangerously, but he’s already gone too far. “He will get better, won’t he?”

“You are not permitted to discuss other patients' treatments,” another nurse grits out. “You must focus only on yourself.”

Then they leave, and RT506 is left with nothing but the echoes of the empty canteen for company.

Later, as he lies in bed, willing sleep to come, Nurse Sylvia opens the door. RT506 scrambles upright, trying to show as much respect as he can, given his half-conscious state.

“I saw you weren’t sleeping well and thought this might bring you some peace of mind,” she says, standing over him.

She inserts a tape into the screen hung in the corner of his room, smiles at him sweetly, and leaves.

Over the next several hours, RT506 watches as FI927 tosses and turns in his bed, slipping into unconsciousness before being jolted awake by the collar still tight around his neck. 

No matter what position he ends up in, the shocks keep coming.

RT506 wonders, in a deep recess of his mind, if FI927 knows why he is being punished – or if he thinks that this is all a normal part of treatment. It doesn’t change things for him, but RT506 can’t help but wonder, even as he tries to shut it all out. 

He got too attached, let his sympathies override his judgment, and this is the result for both of them.

His eyes stay open for a long time, fixed on the screen.

It’s been a while since RT506 was last reconditioned. He wouldn’t normally be concerned– after all, he doesn’t exactly look forward to his sessions, important though they are– but the dreams he’s been having have been disturbing to say the least.

When he brings it up to Nurse Sylvia, she pats him on the shoulder and tells him that, in light of recent events, he has been moved up a level. His sessions have been reduced accordingly. 

RT506 knows this is cause for celebration– he doesn’t recall any of the others having managed the same feat– but it only heightens the sense of pressure mounting over him. The higher he goes, the further there is to fall.

In the end, he concludes that it must be stress causing the dreams. They don’t make much sense at all otherwise.

After all, it won’t be long until they’re back on stage performing for the Grand Immortal Dictator. Rehearsals have been getting more and more frequent and the anticipation is getting to his head. 

RT506 wants to do well. He wants them all to do well so that their treatment can finally be done and they can get their work permits, playing for crowds night after night until this place is reduced to nothing but a memory.

Surplus to requirement.

RT506 knows it’s not appreciative to think of it that way, but it’s hard not to. The more time they spend rehearsing, the less he has to be alone, wondering what is happening to his bandmates and what he’ll see the next time he looks at them.

He’s wondering over this when he hears footsteps approaching his room, loud and angry; a door is flung open, followed by a whimper and the sound of something hitting the ground hard.

Seconds later, his own door is yanked open, and a red-faced nurse drags RT506 out of his room and into the hall he shares with GW386. 

“Make him stop that!” the flustered nurse demands, pointing into GW386’s room where Nurse Sylvia and one of her assistants are holding them down, trying to stop their hands from flying to their neck.

RT506 takes a hesitant step forward, intaking sharply when he notices the red, angry lines GW386 has scratched into their skin.

“Please,” they cry, writhing underneath both sets of hands. “I can get it! I can get it.”

“Can we dose him?” her assistant asks. 

Nurse Sylvia shakes her head, tensing as GW386 attempts to kick out from under her. “We have already exceeded the recommended amount, as you know.”

She sounds disapproving and, if RT506 weren’t so worried, he’d be retreating to his room to avoid her stone-cold glare.

Instead, he clears his throat, making his presence known.

She responds, “A little help, if you don’t mind, RT506.”

He doesn’t waste another moment; the nurses clear out of his way, and he takes their vocalist in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, holding them close so that their hands can’t reach their neck. Instead, they flutter and grip onto RT506.

“Please, I can do it. Let me do it! Let me try again.”

“He had an incident in rehearsals, that’s all,” Nurse Sylvia sighs, tilting her head to look at GW386 with a disapproving grimace. “I was hoping we were past these kinds of setbacks, dear.”

The vocalist chokes back a sob, their hands coming to their hair as they pull and yank at the greasy strands.

“I can take care of him,” RT506 rushes to say. “You okay with me patching you up?”

“I–” GW386 falters, the frantic energy coursing through their body dissipating a little. “I…can do it?”

RT506 looks up at Nurse Sylvia, who watches them carefully. Her eyes give her away. Beneath the sharpness, there’s a hint of softness that is rarely directed at anyone other than GW386.

The moment stretches on as GW386 grows weaker in his hold and RT506 silently implores the nurses to let him help. It is, after all, what they trained him to do. 

“Fine. You might as well try,” Nurse Sylvia says finally, permitting him to start thinking about ways of treating GW386’s injuries without upsetting them any more than they already are. “We can get the doctor to fix the mess later, just patch him up for now.”

RT506 nods, taking the medical supplies bag that the other nurse supplies from his room. 

If he really focuses his mind on it, RT506  can remember their vocalist doing this sort of thing before, but there is never any scarring to prove it. Only the same ones they’ve always had from the first time DRAAG rescued them. Other than that, the doctors tidy them up very well. 

RT506 hears a crackle of electricity coming from the device in her ear as Nurse Sylvia’s face twitches– someone else is talking. Her face hardens considerably, and her eyes flick back to RT506. 

“We have another situation to attend to. Do you trust yourself to manage this one by yourself?”

As if there's ever any such thing as being by yourself in the MOAT.

He doesn’t know how to answer that question honestly. 

As much as he trusts the nurses to hand out treatments when they need them, there is no one else he’d rather be with his bandmates in the aftermath.

The other difficult truth is that he likes when he gets to be alone with them. 

If they ever pressed him on it, RT506 wouldn’t be able to explain why, but it feels comfortable in a way that it never is when nurses or members of the ministry are hovering around. It’s especially confusing since he knows they are always watching, whether they’re physically present or not. 

RT506 doesn’t think logically. They didn’t make him that way, but they tell him it’s okay, since the people making the important decisions definitely are.

“I think I can do it,” he tells them– not a lie, but not as truthful as he could’ve been. 

He wishes he knew what they wanted to hear so that, for once, he could just say it and not have to struggle like this. Sometimes he knows, but mostly he is forced to guess. 

“See to it that he’s ready to continue rehearsals when we return,” Nurse Sylvia says, turning on her heel.

“They will be,” RT506 nods, feeling GW386 do the same against his chest.

With the nurses gone, he sits back on his heels, mindful of the way the vocalist is rocking back and forth in his hold. Their eyes keep flitting between the wall and the door, as if they might reappear at any moment.

The scratches on their neck look worse now that they’re somewhat still, raised and split in a few places where blood is beading. 

“Come here,” RT506 says, getting up and helping GW386 to their feet. They sway precariously before finding their footing. RT506 helps them sit down on the bed, a metal cot to match his own.

“Get it right. You have to get it right,” GW386 mutters to themself. 

Suddenly, their raised fist connects with the side of their head, making a sickening thump. They pull back to do it again, but RT506 grabs their wrist in his firm hand.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he says, feeling a little useless as GW386 curls in on themself, facing away from him as they play with a loose thread on their jacket and rub their arms up and down with increasing force. RT506 immediately recognises it as the same one from their last rehearsal when they were finally given their performance clothes. 

He didn’t get to keep his own outside of practice, but the rules aren’t the same for GW386. Not all of them, anyway.

“Come on,” RT506 says softly, though it still draws a flinch. “Let me see. I know they’re hurting.”

“No,” GW386 replies, curling in even tighter until their face is barely visible behind a curtain of hair. 

“I wanna help,” he says. “I’ve made it better before, haven’t I?”

GW386’s head lifts just enough for them to glance at him, their brows knitting together as they try to remember. RT506 has worn the same expression often enough to recognise it in his bandmate. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” RT506 says, trying to sound encouraging. “You know me. We’ve done this before.”

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, but he knows this feels right. He wants this. DRAAG wants this from him. 

After a long minute of being pulled apart by the vocalist’s glossy eyes, they lunge forward, and RT506 finds himself with his arms full once again.

“I tried,” GW386 insists, muffled by his chest. The position is awkward, but he does his best to rub GW386’s back as they cling on like a drowning man. “I tried this time. They didn’t let me– I wanted to.”

“I know,” RT506 replies, even though he has no idea what GW386 is talking about, and very rarely does. 

Their heart would’ve been in the right place, whatever it was. Unlike the other two, GW386 actually wants to get better. They try– they love the Grand Immortal Dictator– but it’s hard for them. Something went wrong when they were brought back; the pieces of their mind don’t fit together the same way anymore. 

It’s a miracle they’re even alive, let alone able to perform. The MOAT has given them all a second chance. Stability and routine are a big part of that, and GW386 needs that more than any of them, which is why they spend so much time with them.

RT506 isn’t jealous. At least, that’s not all he is. He probably wouldn’t like the pressure of being the frontman anyway.

He’s broken out of his reverie by GW386 mumbling something against his chest.

“What?” he asks, as if woken from a daze.

“Good be here. This evening. It’s good be here.”

“Right,” RT506 nods, trying and failing to hide his confusion. “Let me see your hands.”

The command takes GW386 by surprise, enough so that they uncurl from their position and do what he says. RT506 places his hands on their open palms as he assesses the damage to their neck. At least this way, he can keep them still.

They probably won’t need stitches, but they’ll still need to be cleaned. Fingernails are dirty, especially since GW386 has a pathological fear of water and has to be dragged, literally, kicking and screaming, to take a shower most days.

“Okay, stay just like that,” RT506 says, grabbing the bag from the floor and pulling out a clean cloth and antiseptic fluid. 

He’s careful not to do anything to set the vocalist off as he wets the cloth and starts gently cleaning the scratches, but he can’t help being a little unnerved by the intense focus on him as he works.

GW386 tracks his every movement with wide, watchful eyes. RT506 can never tell what they’re seeing, if it’s anything like what he sees, or if there’s something different going on behind those eyes. Another way of seeing the same, bland surroundings.

“Nice to greet you,” GW386 mumbles, hissing through their teeth when RT506 runs the cloth over a particularly bad wound by the base of their throat.

“What were you trying to do?” he asks the vocalist, who gestures to their neck as though that’s all the answer he needs. “No, I don’t mean–” he isn’t sure what he means. “Were you singing?”

“Singing? No.”

“Well, you were rehearsing.”

“Rehearsing,” GW386 repeats, still staring so blatantly that RT506 has to avert his own eyes and focus on the work at hand– on the pristine white of the cloth slowly turning rusty red. “Yes, rehearsing.”

“What were you rehearsing?” RT506 asks, trying to keep them both distracted.

“Nice this evening. Greetings to the world.”

RT506 frowns, digging through the gaps in his memory for where he’s heard that before.

“Oh,” RT506 exclaims, clicking as he leans back. GW386 flinches, then smiles at him oddly, as if embarrassed. “It’s the introduction, right? For the performance.”

“Yes,” GW386 nods, matching his enthusiasm. “They were trying to– I was getting it wrong.”

“Oh,” RT506 says, softer this time as the pieces come together in his mind. “So you…got upset?”

“I was still trying.” 

They lower their gaze, biting down hard on their lip. RT506 resists the urge to reach out and touch him there. Their neck is the problem area. Any other contact wouldn’t be appropriate. In fact, it would be detrimental to his treatment.

“Hello,” GW386 says, before pausing and clearing their throat dramatically. “Hello, all the world. We love you. The Black Parade.”

They glance at RT506, mouth quirking up hopefully.

RT506 tries to school his expression into something encouraging. 

The truth is, his concerns have only grown since their last rehearsal. Their guitarist could barely hold a pick because his hands were shaking so much, their bass player had to be threatened into remaining standing, and their vocalist only sang the right lyrics about half of the time. 

The rest of the time, they were either making them up or copying them off of that show they’re always watching.

Given all of that, the odds of them impressing the Grand Immortal Dictator enough to ḷ̵̌e̸̬͝å̸͈v̸̬̉ḙ̸̎ ̵̨̏t̵̛͍h̴̪̐i̴̙͆s̸̬̀ ̷̯͋p̵͖̄l̷̻̐ǎ̵̝c̶̹͗e̶͂ get their work privileges.

After their last failed attempt–

Well, he doesn’t want to think about it. Not the parts he can remember, and definitely not the parts he’s forgotten.

They’re going to do better this time. They have to.

“You start with hello, right?” RT506 asks quietly.

Really, he shouldn’t be interfering at all. They tell him all the time to focus on his guitar-playing and leave the rest to them. But he doesn’t want to see GW386 get upset at themself again, or, worse, earn extra treatment.

“Yeah,” GW386 nods emphatically. RT506 gives a last swipe of the cloth before sitting back against the wall. GW386 joins him, their shoulders nearly touching. “Starts with hello.”

He tries to remember hearing the introduction from their last performance, but when he reaches for the memories, he finds himself grasping at air. It throws him off balance every time– the realisation that there’s a gap where there used to be something. He knows it helps him to forget, but it always catches him off guard when he thinks he should remember.

Despite the memory gaps, he reaches deep and manages to pull together a string of words that at least sound like they could be right.

“Hello world, we are The Black Parade.”

GW386’s eyes grow even wider, and he leans into RT506’s shoulder like a child waiting to hear the rest of their bedtime story. 

“And then?”

Despite himself, RT506 smiles, forcing down the laughter that threatens to bubble over and out.

“No, now you say it,” he tells the vocalist.

“Hello,” GW386 copies before being overcome with a fit of laughter that RT506 cannot help but crack up at. They start to sing, “Hello, all the world. We are The Black Parade!”

“Yeah, pretty much,” RT506 says, his smile refusing to budge. “It’s nice to be here this evening.”

“It is.”

“No,” RT506 says, shaking his head. “That’s the next part.”

GW386 clears their throat, straightening up and schooling their face into something closer to a serious expression.

“Good to be this evening, world. We are The Black Parade.”

They smile at RT506 expectantly, and he bites back a grimace.

“Yeah, that’s closer, but the evening part comes last.”

“Hello, world. We are The Black Parade. It’s nice to see you this evening.”

RT506 holds up his hands, mimicking applause, and the vocalist breaks into a smile again. 

“That’s perfect!”

GW386 curls back into his side, burrowing down as he shudders in excitement.

“We are The Black Parade,” he whispers, clasping his hands together. He lifts his gaze to RT506. “Do you think the Grand Immortal Dictator will like it?”

“Of course,” RT506 replies. “No doubt about it. Do it just like we practiced and it’ll be great.”

“Will the others like it?” 

RT506 racks his brain before the other half of the band comes to mind. GW386 usually doesn’t ask about them– doesn’t seem to care that RT506 gets to see them more often. Between rehearsals, it’s almost like they cease to exist to the vocalist.

Even in rehearsals, they act even more strangely around their second half– stage right, as RT506 always thinks of them. FI927 freaks them out, moving too fast and unpredictably, and MW653 gets the opposite treatment, with their vocalist constantly following him around or staring from a distance until someone makes him stop.

RT506 swallows roughly as if something is caught in his throat. He misses their other half when they aren’t together, but he can’t deny his relief at being paired with GW386. Stage right is unpredictable. Stage right misbehaves and doesn’t know how to show their gratitude to DRAAG. Stage right is a bad influence.

Like Nurse Sylvia is always reminding them, they’re lucky over on their side of the MOAT.

Still, that doesn’t stop him wishing…wishing maybe things could be different.

That maybe they were, one time or another–

“R̶̦̳̝͒̿̀ͅa̶̝̱͛̋y̷̘͇̿͂̏̍̑?” 

RT506 blinks, the room suddenly righting itself. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, looking up at the vocalist standing over him, hands wringing nervously.

They bite their lip, glancing at the door and back at RT506.

“You went…somewhere.”

RT506 smiles, tilting his head and letting the momentary confusion wash over him like a gentle wave. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “I’ve been right here the whole time.”

“No, you–”

“I was right here,” he reiterates, with a little more force this time.

GW386 opens his mouth, about to say more, when the door swings open. RT506 doesn’t remember shutting it.

“Boys,” Nurse Sylvia says, a perfect smile printed on her face. “Do we or do we not have an open door policy in this facility?”

“You’re right,” RT506 says before the vocalist can interject and get them both in trouble. “We’re sorry, Nurse Sylvia.”

“Once is an accident, twice is a pattern,” she says, eyeing them both with serious intent. He holds his breath, waiting for her assessment to be over. Finally, she brightens. “So, we’ll call it an accident this time.”

She holds out a hand, gesturing for RT506 to get off the bed and join her. Suddenly, he finds himself shoulder to shoulder with the nurses as GW386 wraps their arms around themself, trying to catch his eye. 

When RT506 keeps his gaze carefully neutral– not looking at anything in particular– they draw a shuddery breath, stepping back to put some distance between them.

“Nurse Sylvia,” they say in a quiet voice, not befitting their vocalist at all. “I’d like another chance at rehearsals now, please.”

“Would you?” Nurse Sylvia asks indulgently, tilting her chin down at them despite their similar height. “Well, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? You should probably come with us.”

When they walk out into the hallway, she places a hand on RT506’s shoulder and says, “You should rest now. Thank you for all your help today.”

“I–” RT506 frowns, glancing at GW386 who remains at a distance. It feels…wrong to leave them now. Like he’s leaving something unfinished.

“Are you feeling okay?” Nurse Sylvia asks, checking his forehead for a temperature. “You’re acting awfully out of sorts, RT506.”

On hearing his identifier that murky, uncomfortable sensation leaves him, dissipating into the sterile air as though it had never been there to begin with. He lets her lead him to his bed, sitting down as they depart for more rehearsals. 

He hopes GW386 can get it right this time.

Although, he can’t remember what they got wrong in the first place.

His mind still feels perfectly blank, not a single thought to trouble him, so RT506 lays back on his bed and stares up at the ceiling, letting the grey, textured paint drift into patterns, faces, and scenery. He decides to see somewhere nicer, where the sky is visible and so full of stars that there’s barely a hint of darkness.

When they lead him to the other side of the MOAT, RT506 doesn’t ask where or who they are going to see. The break from solitary confinement is relieving enough to place a hold on his concerns, but he latches on to the small hope that it will be FI927. 

It’s not that he likes to see him h̸͚̆u̶̫͐ŕ̶̳ẗ̴͖ struggling, but pain seems to be a natural state for the guitarist. RT506 can’t remember ever being around him without something hurting, even if he’s trying to hide it. It’s not so jarring.

Because there’s something about MW653…

RT506 can’t exactly put the right words to it. He’s not scared of him– even the idea of that feels amusing– but RT506 can’t help but get nervous around him.

Unlike FI927, who is unpredictable in ways that eventually become, paradoxically, predictable, he can never tell what MW653 is thinking. He speaks very little, and what he does say always feels loaded with a dozen other things that he is keeping to himself.

When they’re approaching FI927’s cell– not a room like his own, a room doesn’t have bars instead of walls– RT506 even slows down hopefully, eyeing the sleeping guitarist. 

He’s curled up on the floor, looking vaguely worse for wear but not in any obvious places. It’s more of an all-over weariness.

The nurse turns back and gives him an irritated look, so RT506 carries on past him to the adjoining cell where MW653 is lying in bed– a privilege not afforded to his neighbour– facing the wall.

“The wrists are infected,” the nurse explains, handing RT506 his bag of supplies, which he clutches to his middle like a protective barrier between him and the bass player.

“From what?” RT506 asks timidly. He swallows, rephrasing, “I mean, how did it happen?”

“He wasn’t accepting his restraints,” the nurse explains with a shrug. This one is newer, so doesn’t mind getting into a little more detail than the more senior staff would dare to. “The new directive is no physical harm to MW653. I imagine that’s because of the incident we had with our Most Exalted Vocalist.”

He says it mockingly, and RT506 refuses to grimace, even as the urge to correct the nurse rears its ugly head. 

He’s new; he doesn’t understand that their vocalist is going to be someone very important when the Grand Immortal Dictator believes they’re ready. Maybe, when that time comes, they’ll be even more powerful than the nurses, and GW386 will be able to have this one fired for comments like that.

RT506 shakes his head, checking himself. It’s a technique Nurse Sylvia taught him, useful for stopping bad thoughts and fantasies before he can let them run away with him. His reason is restored.

“Can he hear us?” RT506 asks, confused at MW653’s lack of interest in the people discussing him right outside his cell.

Refusing to interact sufficiently with their treatment teams is usually met with certain privileges being revoked. Sometimes that means senses being taken away. 

RT506 still shudders at the memory of a long time when he couldn’t see a thing. He couldn’t even tell who was in the room, but he still begged them to talk to him. 

“He can,” the nurse confirms, rolling his eyes. In that instant, RT506 knows he won’t be seeing this one around very much. They seem to keep c̸̰͑͝r̸͐̂͜u̵̜͋ë̵́ͅͅĺ̴̠l̸͚̮̘͆ḙ̵̞͆́̆r̸̡͓̩͛͐͘ less empathetic nurses away from him and the vocalist. “MW653 has been abusing the latest directive by becoming obstinate.”

“Is that why he was restrained?”

“Something like that. Can you fix it or not?” 

He gives RT506 a look like he can’t quite believe the person standing in front of him is capable of doing much of anything.

He’s right, in a way. Nothing RT506 can do will make any real difference. There will always be another injury, or illness, or something wrong with his bandmates. He’s nothing more than a short-term bandage on a wound that’s been festering down here forever.

Again, he shakes his head, harder this time.

It will all change for them soon. All they need is one more chance.

The Grand Immortal Dictator will see what they’re capable of, and they will fly out of here together.

“Alright,” the nurse says, unlocking the cell. “Go ahead. Call me if there’s trouble.”

Still, RT506 does not enter. Not right away. Something keeps him lingering just on the precipice.

Just before he can back out, MW653’s voice carries over from where he’s pressed against the wall.

“Is he gone?” 

There’s a raspiness that wasn’t there before, probably a sign of disuse. Really, this whole side of the building has that feel, like a place that time forgot.

“He is,” RT506 replies. “Can I come in?”

He doesn’t actually need his permission. If he walks away without fixing their bass player’s wrists, then RT506 will be in trouble, but he doesn’t want to be rude either. Not if he can avoid it.

MW653 rolls over, gaunt eyes barely lit despite the oppressively fluorescent lighting. He doesn’t smile or change his face in any way, but he doesn’t sound upset either when he offers a simple, “Okay.”

RT506 stands against the wall furthest from the bed, busying himself with unpacking his supplies while MW653 continues to lie there, unmoving. It’s clearly not worth the effort to sit up to speak.

“Don’t you want to know why they did it?” MW653 asks.

“I didn’t ask,” he replies, clearing his throat when it feels like something gets lodged in there.

“Alright,” MW653 says. “I’ll tell you anyway.”

RT506 shuts his eyes, breathing as calmly as he can manage as he finishes getting what he needs. He has no excuse not to go over to him now, but he still holds back.

“You broke a rule,” RT506 says. “That’s all I need to know.”

“They wouldn’t talk to him.” MW653’s eyes find the guitarist who is unnaturally still on the ground, breathing, but not deeply. “For weeks, they just ignored him, talking to me like he wasn’t even there.”

“That’s–” RT506 clears his throat again. He can’t seem to shift the blockage. “That happens sometimes.”

MW653 looks back at him, quiet for a moment. Maybe he won’t say anything else, and then RT506 will be able to go on with the rest of his day without being haunted by him.

He has no such luck.

“I thought I’d show them how that felt,” MW653 says, “being ignored. There was nothing they could do about it for a while. I wouldn’t speak, and they couldn’t force me.”

RT506 knows that isn’t true. They can force you to do anything down here, even things you hoped you wouldn’t have to. What he probably means is that they couldn’t do it without causing physical harm, going against the directive.

“Anyway,” MW653 sighs, letting his gaze drift to the ceiling, the same bland grey as RT506’s room, “they caught us passing notes after a while. They couldn’t allow that, so…”

He removes his arms from under the covers where two matching rings stand out, red and raw against his almost translucent skin. The skin is broken in several places, weeping angrily with infection.

RT506’s breath catches, and he can only hope that the cameras didn’t pick up on it. Logically, he knows this sort of thing happens all the time. One of them will act out and require extra treatment beyond the reconditioning sessions they receive on a regular basis, and they will call on RT506 for assistance.

He actually gets nervous when they haven’t used him in a while, like he’s done something wrong, or maybe they don’t need him anymore.

But his stomach clenches at the sight of MW653’s wrists, so thin and fragile-looking. He can’t help but wonder who could look at them and decide to cuff them until the blood flow is restricted and the metal bites the skin.

It’s worse because it’s him. It always is, no matter what RT506 does to mentally prepare himself for it.

MW653 rarely needs his assistance. Maybe that’s part of the problem. RT506 hasn’t gotten used to seeing him this way yet, not like he has with the others.

Tentatively, RT506 sits on the edge of the bed, away from MW653’s head but close enough to take one of his arms and hold it gently in his hand, rotating the wrist to see how the wound is looking.

“What, um–” he stumbles over his words, unable to put them in a kinder package. “What was FI927’s…”

He won’t say p̸̠͚͒u̸͎͔̅͝ṇ̴̡̄ȉ̸̩̌s̶̩̪̐h̵̻̿͐m̵̢̾e̴͉̱̓n̸̟͇̄ẗ̶̲́̔.

But he can’t think of another word for it either. 

MW653 seems to know, in that uncanny way of his, what he means anyway.

“They knocked him around,” he says, a shrug present in his voice despite the lack of physical movement. He sounds bone-tired, like every syllable is draining him more. “Hit his head a lot, I think that’s why he’s been sleeping so much. I don’t know, he won’t talk to me.”

Finally, a bit of genuine emotion creeps into MW653’s words. RT506 finds himself in a reluctant position, unable to do anything but empathise. 

When he’s in solitary, away from the strange but comforting presence of GW386, he feels adrift, like a lifeboat tethered to nothing in a big, rolling sea. 

He does his best to turn away from this feeling– to avoid glancing around the bars at FI927. 

“You shouldn’t let him get you into trouble,” he says quietly, patting down MW653’s right wrist with antiseptic fluid. “It’s not worth all this.”

“Who says it isn’t the other way around?” MW653 asks, letting the question hang in the air. 

His eyes bore into RT506’s with startling clarity, despite his obvious exhaustion. Somehow, his body’s lethargy does not extend to his mind.

RT506 can’t remember the last time he was able to think clearly. It might have started with the new medication they have him on, but it’s hard to tell. They haven’t been reconditioning him enough– he can tell because GW386 has been taken much more often.

He hasn’t made a complaint– it wouldn’t be his place to question a doctor’s orders, or anyone’s for that matter– but it worries him. His words– the right words– are slipping away from him faster than he can grab hold of them.

Sometimes, right before he wakes up, he hears things. Melodies, or snippets of them. Voices, too. So familiar and yet so distant. He can never replicate them when they finally hand him a guitar; they fade with his morning regimen of pills.

“You’re only hurting each other,” RT506 whispers. 

No matter how much he wipes away, fresh blood blooms up from the broken skin of MW653’s wrist, like there’s not enough left in him to close the wound. RT506 accidentally presses too hard in his efforts to stem the bleeding, and he catches MW653’s flinch before he can suppress it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, loosening his grip. “I didn’t mean–”

“It’s fine,” MW653 cuts in, and then he has shaken out of his grip, sitting up against the wall. It’s like watching a puppet being pulled up by the strings. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for this.”

“I–” 

What can he say? That he doesn’t? RT506 doesn’t want to lie to him.

“You shouldn’t blame F̸͍̍r̵̢̹̖̈́͌̉a̸͈̭͍͗̏n̶̩̅̔͝k̸̞̪̋į̴̜́̌ẽ̵͓̖̑, either. Or me. It’s not our fault.”

“Just let me…”

RT506 trails off, willing MW653 to be quiet as he pulls out a roll of bandages. He gets to work wrapping his wrist, but the bass player doesn’t stop. He isn’t frantic, like FI927, or stunted, like GW386. He just keeps talking in his monotone way, keeping the pace, in no rush at all.

“I thought for the longest time that it was– that we must have done something to earn this, either in this life or a past one.” He smiles at RT506– a barely-there thing that stands out unnaturally from his sharpened features. “You know what I realised, after all that time?”

RT506 swallows, glancing at the ceiling as though he can make out the hidden cameras. His ears strain for footsteps coming to take him away from MW653– from his traitorous words and clarity of mind.

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. It does nothing to clear things up. “Please, I don’t– I can’t hear this.”

“You do know,” MW653 says, totally untouched by RT506’s desperation. It makes him feel like the insane one– how can he be strong in the face of such certainty?

MW653 leans closer, resting his head against RT506’s shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffens. “There’s nothing we could’ve done to deserve this. And that means–”

“Stop,” RT506 says, shutting his eyes tightly.

MW653 pretends not to hear him.

“That means that the ministry is wrong.” 

His heart pounds, sweat slicking at the back of his neck, but RT barely feels it. His world narrows down to MW’s voice: his steady cadence and dangerous words. It’s impossible not to listen. MW has reached deep inside him and pulled out his worst fears, laying them bare on the table.

MW must feel the way his breath quickens because he moves back, taking RT’s head in his hands, his expression opening like a window into day. 

They both hear the boots pounding down the hallway, and MW’s grip tightens, his fingers digging painfully into his jaw.

“You can hear me,” MW says urgently. “I didn’t know if you still could.”

RT finds himself nodding, though he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to.

MW smiles– a broken, angry thing.

“They’ve kept me under so much lately, I’ve been too sedated to think. But I remembered. They couldn’t keep it down forever.”

“What did you remember?” RT asks, even as he fears the answer.

They’re running out of time. 

They both know it, so MW finally escalates to an urgent tempo.

“Night-time. We had been driving for hours on big open roads, and you made us get out. We watched the sky and didn’t say a word to each other. There were so many stars you could barely see the–”

RT506 never hears the end of his sentence.

Pieces come back as time flits and fades, moments falling around him like rain.

He only knows he was electrocuted because of the aftertaste in his mouth– that distinctly burnt and human taste.

He only knows he was crying because his throat was sore long after the tear tracks dried on his cheeks.

He remembers pain, so bad it felt like it would never end, and begging anyone who would listen to please forgive him. 

He called out all kinds of names, but that only made them angrier. 

And then it was over.

RT506 woke up in his own bed, rising with a headache that nearly blinded him when he sat up. 

He felt like an exposed nerve for a while afterwards, like everything else had been scraped away, leaving only the raw insides. Every noise set him off; each brush of fabric against his skin was magnified to an unbearable extent. 

So he lay still and quiet. 

Some time must have passed, because his ceiling had been repainted. The stark white was brighter than anything RT506 could remember seeing in the MOAT, brighter than the sun.

Looking back, he couldn’t remember it ever being another colour.

“Feeling any better, RT506?” Nurse Sylvia asks. 

She appears at the foot of his bed with a concerned smile. It only frays a little at the edges.

RT506 doesn’t question where she came from. It’s been hard to pay attention to much of anything these days.

“I–” his voice is scratchy, and he coughs several times before continuing. “I’m not sure. Yes?”

“You’ve been terribly ill,” she says. “We were all so worried.”

“Oh,” RT506 replies. That sounds right. Another coughing fit starts up, and he swallows the water she hands him gratefully. A thought occurs to him, and he plucks it from his mind before it, too, can slip away. “Will I still be able to play the show?”

Nurse Sylvia smiles, revealing rows of pearly white teeth. The colour almost matches the ceiling. 

“Your dedication is gratifying.” She takes his hand and clasps it in her own, and RT506 lights up at the human contact. “I see no reason why you should miss it, especially after all the improvement you’ve shown lately.”

“Thank you, Nurse Sylvia,” RT506 says, almost breathless with the wave of emotion that overcomes him.

She straightens up, letting go of his hand. It still feels warm for a few moments more.

“The Grand Immortal Dictator has been looking forward to this for a very long time. I can admit, just between us, that I am eager to show off the good work you’ve all been doing.”

“That’s all I want,” RT506 replies. 

Tears brim in his eyes and threaten to spill over, but he manages to hold them back.

“I know,” Nurse Sylvia says, opening his door and gesturing for him to stand. “And there is no time like the present.”

“Really?” RT506 says, walking over to her eagerly. 

“Your bandmates are waiting for you. Let’s not leave them there for long.”

“Of course not.”

“This way, then, RT506.”

The walk to the stage has never felt longer, but RT506 hardly takes in a single detail. 

He is ferried along by a feeling so unbearably light that, for a moment, he imagines sprouting wings and flying the rest of the way, meeting his bandmates halfway up to the clouds and grabbing hold of them as gravity lets them go.